


We Are Wounds Adorned

by iwtv



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Anger, M/M, Past physical abuse, Sex as Therapy, peach verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 21:08:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13085397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwtv/pseuds/iwtv
Summary: He finished almost all of a second glass before angrily shoving it away. Perhaps if he wrote he would calm down. But no, he did not feel like writing. He did not want to calm down.Thomas sees a guard from the plantation in town one day.





	We Are Wounds Adorned

He did not let James see.

There had been a time shortly after their reunion, when James had seen. Thomas had forced himself to raise his shirt, blood hot in his cheeks. He’d felt horribly exposed, as though bearing his flesh to James were bearing it to God. James had delicately touched before Thomas hastened to cover himself again. There had been shock on James’s face, quickly followed by anger. It was what he’d expected, but he knew he could never let James see again.

That memory was less sharp now, but his own anger and shame were not. When they had sex he never let James behind him if his shirt was off. Even after the best days (and they had plenty; he was truly blessed), Thomas never dropped his guard. He always slept in a shirt, even if it was hot and muggy outside and James, probably not even thinking about it, told him to take it off. He would not.

He thought often about killing.

Most of the time they were faceless; the men who had guarded him and “cared” for him on the plantation. Everyone except for the brute who had wielded the whip. His face Thomas could visualize with perfect clarity. He had not had a cruel face either. Not like the cruelty he’d come to know in Bethlem. It was worse than that; it was apathy. He was whipped as though he were a mule or bull who needed to move. Once, the men had even told a joke while they were doing it to him.

So every now and then (randomly, really), he would think about killing them, about raiding the plantation single-handedly and murdering every last one of them.

Twice in the past year since he’d left that place, he laid eyes on a face in town that made his blood run cold. One of _them_ , in town to do whatever business they had.

His fists had balled up of their own accord and he had to leave the area immediately for fear of what he might do.

He’d proposed to James that they track down the two men he’d spotted and find a discreet way to do away with them. James had looked at him with some kind of fear Thomas had never seen on his face before. He did not ask again.

Now he took another drink of his wine and poured more in his glass. The bottle had been gifted to him in appreciation for his dedication as a town council member. It was the first time he’d had wine in a long time and he and James were going to save it.

It was a burgundy wine. It took his taste buds half a glass to get used to. After that he’d downed the remaining glass quickly, thinking it resembled blood in the dim yellow glow of their cabin.

Blood. Dark crimson staining the sides of the glass.

The alcohol loosened his mind, letting him remember how his back had been similarly stained after the first whippings. There had been so much blood that day.

He finished almost all of a second glass before angrily shoving it away. Perhaps if he wrote he would calm down. But no, he did not feel like writing. He did not want to calm down.

Sometimes when James got in a bad way he would go outside and start splitting wood. The force of it, the feel of the axe and the energy it took, he said, helped. But it was well past dark outside and it was a new moon. Thomas huffed out a sigh, pacing the floor. James was in their bedroom reading. He ought to be quiet anyway.

A new idea came to him. He walked over to a cabinet and began pulling out their hunting rifles and a pistol and things to clean and load them with. He draped a cloth on the table and set to work, making sure the barrels were cleaned and then loaded.

“What are you doing?”

Thomas startled. He’d not even looked up from his task for several long minutes, during which time James had entered the main room. He was dressed to turn in for the night, wearing only a favorite pair of breeches. Thomas could see his eyes glittering in the reflection from the fire.

“Cleaning these. It’s been awhile. I felt restless.”

He folded over his rag to a clean side and resumed his work on the pistol.

“I thought you usually preferred a pot of ink and a piece of paper in such a state.”

James came to the edge of the table. Thomas kept his eyes on the pistol, holding it up in the light to get a better look at it. There was hardly anything that could be called grime or dirt on it; the pistol was for defense only and rarely used.

“I was not in the mood for writing,” he responded.

He looked over at the wine bottle a ways beside him and reached for it. James’s hand clamped down swiftly over his. Thomas felt his jaw tighten.

“I’d like a drink, if you don’t mind.”

“I do.”

Thomas removed his hand from out under James’s and picked up the rag again. From the corner of his eye he saw James come around to him until he stood directly next to him.

“Look at me.”

His tone was laced with unease.

“I’m fine,” said Thomas, dragging his eyes up. He found himself wishing half-heartedly that James were ugly so he would not get lost in those warm depths when their eyes met.

“You are not.”

James’s brows drew up and Thomas had to drop his gaze. Instead he let himself look at the rest of James. The orangish hairs scattered over his body looked gorgeous in the flickering firelight. The solid shape of his thighs was also illuminated in his thin breeches, as were the thick and smooth curves of his calves.

“You’re thinking about it again, aren’t you?” asked James. “About the man you saw in town.”

“It doesn’t matter,” mumbled Thomas, feeling his pulse quicken. He gritted his teeth together.

“It does matt—”

“It does not. _Matter._ ”

James stilled. Thomas tried hard to swallow down the tears that forced their way to his eyes. He squeezed them shut. When he opened them he surged forward and kissed James. It was soft but full. As soon as James’s lips began to part, accepting it, Thomas plunged on ahead, mouth demanding. A small sound came from James, who let Thomas in. Thomas raised his hands to James’s bare shoulders, swiping his hands down along hard, tanned arms and the masses of brown dots there, then bringing them up to James’s face.

James made another sound, this time one of distress. He forced their faces apart, looking baffled.

“Thomas, what—”

“Shh,” said Thomas, nipping at James’s lips. “Please. Just…I need this.”

He managed to keep the desperation out of his voice, giving a small sigh of relief as James consented, bending his head to kiss the side of his neck.

They made their way into the bedroom.

“Fuck me,” Thomas whispered after he’d taken James’s cock in his mouth and it was rock-hard and wet and James was moaning softly.

James let himself be pushed to the edge of the bed, stroking Thomas’s cock as he kissed roughly along Thomas’s shoulders and chest. Thomas moved to climb on the bed and to lie down but James stopped him.

“No. Like this.”

His voice was thick and low and rough. The sound of it seemed to reverberate in Thomas’s gut, making him stroke himself. James had changed their positions and was stepping behind him. His hand snaked down under Thomas’s breeches, middle finger rubbing over his cleft.

Thomas let James tease him, eventually stepping out of his pants. James opened him and Thomas leaned over the bed, eyes slipping closed as James’s fingers and tongue worked him wide and made him wanting. Then he felt James’s fingers close around the edge of his shirt and very slowly start to lift it.

Thomas’s heart jumped in his throat. He reached around and grabbed James’s hand, clutching to it.

“No. Stop.”

James’s lips were at his ear, his front side gently rubbing against Thomas’s back. He did not remove his hand.

“I want to see,” James said, his voice like silk and cotton and everything it should have been but Thomas did not want it. He gripped James’s fist harder in his own.

“No,” he repeated.

James’s cock was between the globes of his ass, rubbing up and down and making Thomas whine deep in his throat.

“James, please,” he tried.

“I love you,” said James in that same tone, forcing his fist to pull up an inch of fabric. Thomas tried forcing it back down.

“I don’t want you to,” he panted out. “You know that.”

“You cannot hide like this. It hurts me to see it.”

Before Thomas could respond he felt the head of James’s cock pressing against his entrance, hard and wet and plump. Thomas rolled his hips, desperate for the touch, for more. His fingers were beginning to ache around James’s. James forced more of his shirt up. Thomas felt his resolve begin to slip.

“N-no,” he panted out again. “Please just fucking fuck me.”

He sounded pathetic, like a broken thing. And perhaps he was, and perhaps that was the whole point.

And suddenly James released his grip and Thomas jerked his shirt down. In the next instant, quick as you please, both of James’s hand slipped under his shirt. Thomas clamped his arms over James’s. James’s cock pushed inside him and immediately began to fuck him.

Thomas pinched his eyes shut and rolled his hips.

“Yes please.”

Tears pricked his eyes.

“Fuck me hard,” he said, voice so raw it disturbed him.

Arms still clamped around him, James drove his cock in hard and deep, punching out long moans from Thomas. Thomas spread his legs, leaning his weight against the side of the bed. The entire frame creaked and moved with the power of James driving into him.

In this state Thomas was powerless to stop those arms and hands from lifting his shirt, up, up and up, over his shoulders and head. He flung it off angrily and let out a wail. Heat coursed through his body. He balled and unballed his fists. He was so fucking _angry._

Two hot palms touched his back as James kept fucking him hard. Thomas closed his eyes, wondering if the heat from those palms could sear away the scars that were everywhere. He imagined it was so and gradually he felt the heat leave his cheeks.

Next came lips touching his back, kissing and even biting over the cross-hatch quilt that was his back. They kissed and kissed and kissed. Not even kisses really, because James was fucking him too hard to really be kissing him. But it did not matter.

“On your back,” Thomas huffed over his shoulder. He half expected James to argue, but he did not. Instead he withdrew his cock and flopped on the bed. When Thomas moved to straddle him James shook his head.

“Your back to me,” he said.

Thomas shot him a look of pure belligerent anger but did as he was asked. He turned around and then and only then did James’s knees fall back, allowing him to sink himself over James’s cock.

He braced himself on James’s thighs and immediately fucked himself over James’s cock, riding him hard enough that James did not have to buck up into him.

James cursed and whined in ways he did not always do. His blunt fingertips raked down Thomas’s back.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he mumbled over and over. Thomas fought it off. Tears pricked his eyes again. He bit his bottom lip until it was painful. He moved sharply over James’s cock, until James sloppily thrusted up into him. Thomas let out a wail. He came without even touching himself. He wailed again, his throat dry, and grinded down over James’s cock. He heard James’s breathing grow hard and short. He fucked up into Thomas deep and came, fingers digging hard into Thomas’s hips and forcing his cocker deeper inside.

Thomas closed his eyes and felt James’s seed spill into his belly. His movements slowed to a crawl until they both stilled.

The tears came down his cheeks then. He dismounted James and hastily stood, trying to keep himself in check.

“Thomas…”

Thomas kept his back to James, acutely aware of the irony. He wiped hard at his eyes and his face and took several deep breaths. The bed creaked and he heard James rise behind him, fingers hesitantly touching his shoulder.

“I’m so angry at times,” Thomas said on the end of a shaking sigh. “And I don’t know what to do.”

James turned him around and Thomas was already burying his face in the crook of James’s neck. Everything was released from him then and he sobbed and wailed, eyes pinched so tight he saw orange and black.

If not for James he would have fell to the ground, but strong arms and a strong body were pressed against him, like a tree, rooted to the spot and whispering only the sweetest things into his ear. It all calmed Thomas, bit by bit, until he had stopped crying. Mostly.

He pulled back from James, exhausted. James guided them back to the bed.

“Anger is normal,” said James. “You will feel it for some time. I wish I could say that one day you will wake up and it will be gone, but it probably never will be. But you can control it, channel it into…other things.”

He offered Thomas a sheepish smile and a shrug to indicate their coupling and Thomas felt his lips turn up. Truthfully, the sex had helped. It was too hard to hold onto the anger just now when his body was so sated from James. Then his brows furrowed as he considered James’s words and felt a strong sense of déjà vu.

“I told you that once,” he said at last and not without some measure of awe. “About shame, almost word for word.”

James nodded solemnly. “You did. And I was paying attention. Miraculously.”

“And focusing on other tasks to help ease it away,” continued Thomas. “Like splitting wood or hunting. Cooking.”

“Reading and writing,” added James.

“I think fucking is the best so far,” said Thomas and James chuckled, giving him a toothy grin.

Then Thomas let out a shaky sigh and twined their fingers together. He reached over and plucked a book from the nightstand, handing it to James. James ran his hands lovingly over the familiar red leather and the symbol emblazoned in the center.

“Read to me?” Thomas asked.

James was looking at him softly. His eyes were dark green at the moment. Thomas swore they were always green when they had been together. Now they were full to the brim with devotion and understanding. With silent awe Thomas remembered James was the only living person to look at him like this. He forgot all about scars.

“Of course,” said James. “Where should I start?”

_Years I thought I was_  
whole, decorated only with the scars of what I  
endured.  
I know now,  
we are wounds adorned, slightly,  
with tiny bits  
of unharmed flesh. 

~Tyler Knott Gregson


End file.
